Satin Sleigh Ridebysr71plt©
(Posted to Literotica to mark the Halloween season, this story fulfills a request from a reader, James A, for a satin fetish story.)
Count Gregor Arninov towered over his elegantly dressed host and hostess in the foyer of their winter dacha as his sleigh was being brought around. He was leaning over them and holding the admiral's wife's small silk-gloved hand in his appreciably larger satin-clad one while he murmured how wonderful their ball had been and that, yes, he had enjoyed dancing with their daughter immensely. The hostess was lost to his charm—and to his handsome face and broad shoulders and slim waist. He was elegantly dressed in evening clothes with satin lapels and finishes and gave off the aura of a powerful, sensual man, whose well-developed muscles were barely contained by the confines of the formal attire. Some who knew him well likened him to a wolf—intelligent, handsomely and powerfully built, but with a dangerous, wild, loner, almost ravenous streak in him that lent an incongruity to wearing the formal attire of Russian winter balls. In the realms of ambition, money and power, however, he was seen to fit right in. Any family seeking what he had to offer—and there were many—held its daughters out to him; the ones that didn't have such ambitions hid their daughters whenever he was nearby.
He could have told them all that they needn't have bothered.
The admiral, also looking at Gregor with both admiration and speculation, asked yet again if perhaps the count should not spend the night here considering the blizzard that was raging outside. He was only slightly reticent in doing this, having given in to the scheming of his wife and daughter to bring their campaign to a close to entice the count into marriage by bringing the daughter and count in close proximity at night under one roof, their bed chambers just a few steps down a deserted hallway from each other. The count had somewhat of a reputation for his nocturnal activity—quite a varied reputation actually—and every noble family in the region had taken notice of his physical beauty, his standing at court, and his large fortune. And most of the young women and even some of the young men dreamed of lying under him.
Citing pressing business at home, Arninov politely demurred again. He gave a slight start as, with the opening of the front door to the swirling snow and howling wind outside, his sleigh driver and new footmen came into the foyer and the candles in the chandeliers overheard flamed up.
But then the host and hostess were returning to the ballroom and their other guests, and the sleigh driver was holding a massive mink coat open for the count to slip into. The young footman, on his first outing and nearly overwhelmed at coming to grips with his duties, stood trembling, ready to open the door and then rush out to the sleigh to let the steps down and take his perch beside the driver. He was a beautiful young man, diminutive for his age, with alabaster skin and dark curly hair framing a face with full lips; a shy smile; large, dark pupils; and thick, curly eyelashes. Although slight of build, his body was perfectly formed, as demanded by the physical fitness championing count. In fact, the footman was of much the same physical presence as all of the count's man servants, save the sleigh and carriage driver, who had been with the count's family for several decades and who saw and knew all—and did whatever the count asked of him.
The count gave the footman a piercing stare as he shrugged into the mink coat. He accorded the young man a slight nod of the head, and, after a moment of trying to match his employer's stare, the footman cast his eyes down in filial obedience. It was a momentary check in the levels of status and privilege of the nobleman and two servants in the foyer, but just a moment. At a signal from the sleigh driver, the footman threw open the door to almost be tossed back immediately by the howling wind and then thrust himself out into the night to reach the sleigh before the count and driver did.
As the count reached the sleigh, the footman let down the steps. The count paused there for a moment, gaining his balance and reaching for the handholds to help pull himself up into the sleigh against the current of the wind. The footman placed his hands on the count's leather boot momentarily to help his master steady himself. He shuddered at the feel of the leather. Rich material moved him. Satin possibly the most of all. The count looked down and their eyes met. In the eyes of the footman was slight fear, but also a note of resignation. Once more the footman dipped his eyes in obedience to the master. In the count's eyes, slight amusement, more than a slight interest, and a touch of hunger.
Moments later, the sleigh was lumbering off into the blinding snow, almost immediately lost from sight from the entrance to the admiral's dacha by a swirling white cloud, and on its swift, but precarious journey across the fields to the count's winter dacha.
From where he sat in the back of the sleigh, wrapped in his luxurious mink coat and contemplating the cigar and cognac awaiting him before his own roaring fire at the end of the journey—as well as, perhaps, a bit of dalliance during the journey—all that the count could see outside the sleigh was the unforgiving world of white swirling snow and the blur of passing tree trunks. The moon was struggling to be seen through the cascading snow from above, but was no more than an eerie light giving a hint to the undulating hills the narrow track of the sleigh was shushing through. The moon was trying to valiantly cast light on the activities of the night, but it slipped behind clouds and failed in its own recognition of inevitable events unfolding by forces beyond its power.
Good, the count thought. He much preferred the dark and the pleasures of the night.
Looking ahead, the count observed the backs of the two heads, the driver, in a fur hat, with puffs of gray tumbling around his ears. The driver was hunched over and snapping the reins of the four black horses, their heads rearing as they pulled the sleigh through the almost-frozen mud and over snow and ice and snorted their billows of breath clouds. The driver was the ultimate servant. His eyes would ever be forward directed, checking the horses, and ever watching the approaching road, no matter what happened inside the sleigh during the precarious journey.
Next to the driver, bareheaded and shuddering, not only from the cold, sat the young, virginal footman.
Save for the snorting of the horses, the occasional crack of the whip, the shushing of the sleigh runners, and the jingling of the sleigh bells, serving the purpose of warning of their approach to any other sleighs out on this dark, snowy night, all was silent as the grave. But it was a silence full of tension, waiting for something momentous to happen, like the long, drawn-out, shimmering note from a violin.
The count leaned forward and touched the shoulder of the footman, who jerked in surprise, but who nuzzled into the satin of the count's glove as the count caressed his cheek. The count pulled back his hand and the footman turned and looked back at him. His eyes were big, his pupils bright, whether with anticipation or fear, it was not known. And, on his part, the count didn't care.
The footman climbed over his seat and into the back of the sleigh. The count, smiling broadly, opened his mink coat up wide and spread his legs. The satin-lined fly of his dress trousers was already open, and a long, thick, erect cock curved up from the opening. Resigned, but trembling, the footman sank on his knees between the count's thighs, and the count closed the mink coat over him—over both of them. Inside the covering mink, the count reached down and took the footman's head in his satin-gloved hands. For several minutes, he rubbed the young man's cheeks on his erect cock until he had turned the footman's face so that his cock slid between the young man's full lips. The satin gloves moved the footman's mouth on the cock.
The smooth satin gave solace to the young peasant who had known nothing of such finer fabric but who had known he would do what he must to be close to it. His hands roamed on the powerful, elegantly clad body of the count as his mouth gave suck. The lining of the trousers was satin, a strip running down the side of the trousers from the waist was satin. The count's cummerbund was satin, as were the lapels on his jacket. The lining of the enveloping mink coat was satin. Even the count's shirt was white satin. The footman took comfort in running the smooth, cool satin fabric through his fingers while the count moved his head on the cock, holding his cheeks in the satin-gloved hands.
The count leaned down and voiced a command, and the footman, fully embraced in the warmth of the mink coat, slowly shed his clothes without losing contact of his mouth with the hard cock. When he was naked under the mink, the count moved the satin-gloved hands to the young virgin's waist and pulled him up onto his lap, facing him. The count's suit coat had spread so that the footman's chest was rubbing on the white satin of the count's shirt. The footman moaned at the feel of the fine material on his bare chest. The count had palmed the footman's buttocks and was kneading and separating them with his satin-gloved hands. His long, hard, thick, curved cock had snaked into the young man's crack and the upper side of that was rubbing across the footman's hole. Kneading the plump, white buttocks with satin-gloved hands, the young man's entrance was stretched and rubbed across the bulb of the cock again and again. The virgin moaned, mewed, and breathed heavily as his entrance slowly opened to the intention of the cock.
The footman's cheek and hands went to the comforting satin of the count's coat lapels, and he panted quietly and whimpered, knowing what was coming but taking comfort in the feel of the rich fabric. Even the satin of the gloved hands rolling and squeezing and separating his buttocks cheeks was arousing to him. He could do this. He had known this would be expected of him.
But he had not known everything.
The count squeezed and parted the buttocks cheeks and rolled them up so that the bulb of the upcurved cock was throbbing at the entrance of the hole. The footman whimpered his fear, feeling the bulb in position.
The storm outside the sleigh had not abated. It had picked up and the wind was howling. The sleigh driver cracked the whip, knowing there were miles to go and that the landscape was becoming more threatening, the swirling snow more enveloping.
The footman howled too and clutched at the satin lapels as the bulb of the cock moved into him, stopped, pulsing, to permit his channel to open further to the thick shaft. But the footman's howls were taken away by the wind. Three inches inside him, the count stopped again. The footman was sobbing and groaning. He rubbed a check against the satin lapel, wetting it with his tears. The count released the buttocks and glided his satin-gloved hands upon and around the footman's body, calming him down for the so much more that was to come.
Satin-gloved hands clutching and spreading the buttocks once more, the count lifted the footman's channel off the cock one inch and then pulled it down an inch and a half. Another inch up and two inches in. Then the interval between the rising and the falling was reduced to almost nothing, as the count lifted and pushed down, farther each time. The footman was trembling in his arms, but his virginal channel was opening to the steady, deliberate mining of the count's patient cock, and the count was deep inside.
Holding his waist with satin-gloved hands, the count pushed the footman's torso away from him, cantilevered from the count's chest. The young man was folded back on knees planted on each side of the count's hips. He could feel that satin strip on the side of the trousers on each side against the side of his knee. So much satin. He moaned his arousal, his channel now pulsating on the impaling shaft. The mink coat billowed out in front but still covered the bodies of the two against the swirling snow and freezing cold. The footman's face was smothered in the satin lining of the fur coat. The young man sucked the satin material into his mouth to keep himself from crying out, as the count began to pull his channel on and off the buried cock. Slowly, deliberately. Nearly all the way off and then with a long pull, all the way down again. The young, until-now virginal footman groaned and flinched with each deep thrust. He ejaculated onto the satin cummerbund, and the count pulled the limp body of the footman back up to his chest and changed the rhythm of the fuck.
The thrusting increased in speed and intensity, and the count was breathing hard now and had his lips planted in the hollow of the footman's neck. The footman was writhing against him, encased in satin, satin gloved hands working his buttocks.
The howling of the wind increased; the shushing of the sleigh rails became more intense and insistent, screaming to be at journey's end. The count fucked faster and harder, and over and above these familiar sounds floated the hair-raising sounds of the baying of . . . wolves. They were closing in on the sleigh in an organized pack, running alongside it now, snapping at the runners and at the horse's fetlocks when the sleigh driver couldn't deflect them from those with his whip. Trying, unsuccessfully as yet, to leap into the sleigh. Howling their frustration and hunger and need at the sleigh. Trembling, the young man rubbed his cheeks against the comforting satin lapels of the formal attire to soak up his tears from the deep taking and from his fear of the snapping wolves.
The sleigh's speed increased, the driver yelled at the horses and lashed out with his whip at wolves and horses alike.
Inside the sleigh, the count fed his ravenous need and hunger as well, as he fucked the small footman faster and harder, lifting him high and slamming him down hard. The footman was writhing on his lap and sobbing, as much in fear of the attacking wolves as of the taking by the count.
A wolf slung his torso into the sleigh and snapped at the hem of the mink coat, getting it in his fangs, but the count kicked at him and the beast fell away. The count didn't lose a stroke inside the footman's channel. He was sucking hard on the footman's neck, feeling the throbbing of the carotid artery. The footman's head was lolled off to the side, his white-knuckled hands gripping at the satin coat lapel.
At the first spurt of the count's ejaculation deep inside the footman, he sank his fangs into the young man's carotid artery. The footman flinched and his eyes rolled back in his head. Another spurt and a deep suck. The wolves howled and whined, and they could be heard falling behind the sleigh, giving up, having lost to a far more powerful force than themselves. Spurt and deep suck. The footman's body relaxed, although he still was rubbing his fingers on the satin lapel. Spurt and deep suck. The footman was sighing, his body completely relaxed in the count's arms. He had a small, distant smile on his face. Spurt and deep suck.
The sleigh had come to a stop—at the entrance door to the count's winter dacha.
The count was in the foyer of his own dacha. One young, alabaster-skinned serving man was pushing the door shut against the offending wind and swirling snow. Another beautiful, young man with alabaster skin was taking the mink coat, and yet another one was brushing at the elegant material of the count's evening dress. All of the men were moving somewhat lethargically, but they all were dark-haired beauties and all responded to the world with silence; slight, distant smiles; and worshipful glances at the Master, the count.
The count slowly ascended the broad, blood-red marble staircase to the bedroom level and went straight to his bath, where another young, alabaster-skinned serving man helped him to disrobe and slip into a steaming bath. While the count soaked, he smoked a cigar and occasionally turned and gave suck to the cock of the young serving man standing close to the side of the tub.
A red satin robe was draped on a chair beside the tub as well, and the young serving man ran his hand over that lovingly as the count played with his cock.
When the count came into his bed chamber, robed in the red satin drape, which was sashed, but open in the front to reveal his bulging pecs and a peek now and then as he walked of his huge, half-erect cock, his chamber was prepared for the night's feeding.
The footman from the sleigh, also bathed and naked, was laying on his belly on a white stain bedspread on the count's bed. His eyes were open and he was watching the approach of the count both with some interest and with more than a bit of awe and worship. He was slowly, rhythmically scrunching the satin material of the bedspread in his fists, seeking grounding and solace in the texture he loved to stroke. The fear and indecision were gone. It was as if he was half drunk, though. He was nearly dozing and was slow to absorb what he observed. He was breathing lightly and sighing, and at first view of the count in the satin robe, he raised his hips slightly and was rubbing his cock head against the satin bedspread, reveling in the sensual sensation of it.
The count sat in a chair facing the bed. He was still smoking his cigar when he entered and held a snifter of cognac in the other hand. He took a puff of the cigar and a sip of the liquor, and put them down next to a set of red satin gloves that had been laying on the table. He took up the gloves and slid them onto his hands; then he took his cock in his hand and slowly ran the red satin over the shaft. He sat there for several minutes, alternating between the cigar and the liquor with one hand, while stroking himself with the satin glove with the other. As he made satin love to his cock, his eyes were on the alabaster body of the footman. In turn, the footman's eyes were riveted on the satin-gloved hand stroking the count's cock. The young man's hips continued moving ever so slightly on the bed.
The count waited until he heard the young man whimper and whisper, "Please."
"I own you now," the count said.
"You have always owned me," his conquered peasant answered in a small, almost distant, voice.
"Not like I own you now. We have only begun. You will endure a level of ecstasy from me now beyond anything you ever have dreamed of. What do you want from me now? Your eyes tell me you want something from me."
"I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. To possess me. Like in the sleigh. Again and again."
The count gave a deep-throated, low laugh and stood up from the chair. He moved over to the bed and sat next to the young man's prone body. The satin robe fanned out around him, and the footman instinctively reached for an edge of it to run through his fingers.
The count let his satin-gloved hands glide over the young man's body, and the footman purred for him. His travels ended at the buttocks, which he gently worked, stroking them and kneading them. Separating them. Spreading the hole wide. Observing it opening to him. Running a satined finger over the hole and listening to the young man moan. Penetrating, a satined invasion. Listening to the young man groan. Moving his body to below the footman's, so that when he separated the orbs he could move his face down and push his tongue into the cavity.
The footman groaned and whispered, "Fuck me, please fuck me, Master."
Giving another low laugh, the count sat up on the foot of the bed and lifted and pulled in the small body of the footman. He made the footman stand on the floor in front of and facing away from him, bend over, and grab his ankles. He then gave the young man's buttocks more attention with his satin-gloved hands and pushed his face into the crack.